Memphis Streets 3: Revenge

Chapter 38- Lucifer

The mortician snatches the white sheet from Bishop's head. At my side, Momma releases a gut-wrenching wail that twists my gut into knots.

I force steel into my back while I clamp my jaw tight, all in a desperate attempt to stop the unthinkable. Don't cry. Don't. You. Fuckin'. Do. It. I can't believe that I even have to say this shit to myself—but life is dealing me too many body blows and I'm seconds from giving in.

My mother, on the other hand, loses it. She jets from my side and throws herself across Bishop's cold, dead body. I should pull her back, but I know that she'll fight me off so I let her have her moment. In my absence, the mortician steps forward and before he can even touch my mother, I pull him back and shake my head.

"I'll give you two a few minutes," he says. I keep my glare leveled on him until he exits the room.

Even then, I cling onto my anger as if it's going to save me from drowning in an ocean of unwanted emotions. Too many emotions. "My baby. My baby. Whhhhyyyy?" Momma's sobs grow so loud that my ears ring.

How long should I let her do this to herself—five minutes—ten minutes? Momma had changed a lot over the years. Her once-fit frame is now ringed with love handles and breasts giving in to the pressure of gravity. And though her beautiful caramel skin is still wrinkle-free, there's a permanent sadness in her eyes. Momma has never been anybody's fool, she knew Bishop and I followed our father's path into the street.

Of course, she preferred I'd taken my place among the Cartier's instead of getting involved with the wet work. But she was old-school, when women just married the game—not played it.

Momma and I never saw eye to eye on much, especially after she crawled into bed with Cousin Skeet so soon after Daddy's death. And with my own situation after Mason's death, I understand it even less now. Unless there was something going on between them before Daddy was killed.

I shake my head to erase the thought, but it's not like my head is an Etch A Sketch. This thought has been circling for more than a decade and each time it does, I hate her even more for it. Closing my eyes, I hang my head. Today is not the day for this shit. Juvon is dead.

I flinch from the stabbing pain in my heart. As a line of defense, I shift my gaze to the floor and pretend to be fascinated by how clean the white linoleum looks.

Slowly, my eyes crawl upward. Don't look him. Don't. Do. It. I can keep it together if I don't look at him. But my eyes have a mind of their own and they keep traveling his body until they land on Juvon's sunken gray-black face and the huge hole in his right temple.

Dammit, Bishop. Why did you have to go and get yourself killed? My hands ball at my sides. Maybe if I'd been at Da Club that night then none of this would have happened. I don't know if that shit is true, but the thought keeps creeping around in my mind.

With new rumors swirling around that Snake and Le'Shelle had somehow survived that hit outside the church, it's just one more hard blow that I have to deal with. It's hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago, I was worried about a tag-team alliance between him and Dice.

Now, if I could turn back time, I would gladly step down and give him the damn throne. But I've been wishing for a fucking time machine for the past few months. Fifteen minutes pass and Momma's wails grow louder. Finally, I step forward and settle my hands on her shoulders.

"C'mon, Momma. Let's go."

"No. No. I can't leave him like this," she sobs, fighting me off. "I can't leave him alone." I close my eyes and step back and watch her do what she has to do.

An hour later, Momma finally releases him, weak and exhausted. When I start to lead her out of the room, she grabs my arm and forces me to look at her. "You find out who did this shit to your brother."

Her fingers dig into my skin. "I know that you have ways of finding out. You do it. You hear me?" Momma's jaw trembles with renewed anger. "You kill those muthafuckas who did this shit to my baby."

I swallow the boulder in the center of my throat as I nod. "I will."

"Promise me," she insists, her nails damn near hitting bone. "I want them dead—every last one of those muthafuckas." At long last, something we see eye to eye on.

"You have my word, Momma."